


Puttin' on the Ritz

by Prociions



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, Speakeasies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29593284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prociions/pseuds/Prociions
Summary: Charon's time after the war is measured solely by the repetitive track that is his employment in Elysium. Haute Speakeasy for the eminent and influential in New York. The evenings are as boring and sedate as physically possible when manning a bar at the height of prohibition.Interruptions are not requested or desired, but they have arrived; in the shape and form of one smartly dressed pianist, dominating the stage, soon to be consuming his every waking moment.
Relationships: Charon/Hermes (Hades Video Game), Dusa & Megaera (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 64





	1. I - Manhattan

**Author's Note:**

> [This whole au happened bc Michael's designs cursed my dick.](https://twitter.com/theradmovie/status/1350232058338144259)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapt. 1 - Manhattan: A timeless classic; sweet and boozy. Surprising complexity for so simple a drink. Approachable and layered with a lingering savory bitterness. Made with whiskey, sweet vermouth, and bitters.

There is a certain tilt to the inebriated body. The tottering lean of a person too deep in their cups; magnified and multiplied by the presence of those around them. Crowds that swayed hypnotically in near unison, regardless of song.

Those same bodies that would tip into his counter, their grubby hands leaving imprints on the brass that ringed the bar. Smudged fingerprints he would need to polish off by the end of the night. Charon was beginning to hate handsy drunks with a passion that, in a less stubborn man, would have heralded a change in career choice.

He had taken to looming as much as humanly possible behind the partition, making no effort to seem less intimidating. Arms crossed and scowl firmly in place as soon as any of those repeat offenders tripped their way over to the bar.

Eventually, some of those inebriated idiots had complained. Resulting in Hades passing along several pointed comments via Megaera, regarding his lack of customer service skills. Charon had, in turn, cordially invited Hades to find some other schmuck to both run his bar and act as the bouncer when Meg wasn’t around.

Hades had presumably given that line of questioning up for a loss, sending back no answer. Resigning himself to the unmovable fixture that was Charon; firmly planted behind the counter like some unorthodox gargoyle. A figure stern enough to dissuade Elysium’s usual clientèle from any manner of foolishness with ease.

The bigger and richer they were, the harder they tended to fall. And Elysium hosted the richest in the city. A private speakeasy of Hades’ own design, it was an elegant affair. Invitation only, live music and quality mixed drinks; the preferred haunt of New York’s elite. The kind of people too soft and stupid to push back and risk fraternizing with Charon more than strictly necessary.

This was preferable.

As there was only one thing worse than a handsy drunk: a chatty one. The kind of fools who would insist on trying to talk him up regardless of his lack of response. Fueled by the belief that they could slide into his good graces, earning leniency denied to the rest of the patrons. This was an erroneous belief, and Charon wasted no time correcting them as readily as he corrected their touchy compatriots. Content to send them skittering back to their corners with a well placed glare.

He was there to pour drinks, silently, efficiently. Not to answer questions about the scars that crept from under the edge of his eyepatch, or field small talk about the weather, an act he would not have been inclined to even if it had been physically possible.

Most patrons grasped this with enough repetition. Consistency had a way of beating sense into even the most belligerent of drunks. It was an approach that had worked flawlessly on every occasion previous.

This only made his current annoyance - and the fact he was stone cold sober - doubly insulting.

The night’s entertainment had stepped outside of Charon’s good graces with an immediacy that would have been admirable if it wasn’t infuriating. Hades had scraped the little no-name pianist out from whatever dark corner he usually sourced their performers; and the kid seemed to relish his opportunity. Flitting around different tables in between his sets, leaving the ladies giggling into their hands at whatever comment he had made, before he offered to get them a top-up.

An offer that looped his circuitous path back and forth between Charon’s bar, chattering a mile a minute despite not touching a drop of drink himself. Somehow not clued into the fact that Charon could not and would not respond.

He continued to return after each round, drumming his hands on Charon’s previously immaculate counter top, ignoring his persistent scowl. Smiling back as if he couldn’t see the ill mood creeping across Charon’s already severe countenance. Taking up precious time that could have been used to identify Hades’ contact. The new courier for their monthly delivery of moonshine, needed to keep the bar stocked.

Charon’s already dangerously short patience was being stretched thin. The night’s particularly rowdy crowd competing with his impatience for this mystery delivery person who had yet to make themselves known.

Unlike that other, unwelcome party.

“Hey big six,” His nameless annoyance greeted, returning without the pretense of getting drinks for another patron. Sliding into the outermost barstool with the easy, loose limbed grace of complete relaxation. “How’ve you been doing in the last hour that I didn’t have time to darken your metaphorical doorstep? I see you’re still making that face, I’ve been warned that stuff’s likely to stick if you do it for that long.” The kid quipped, shooting him a bright smile, that only grew wider as Charon’s own mouth dipped into a sneer.

He pointedly slammed an empty glass between them. As clear a sign as he was willing to spare for this unpleasant visitor, who kept staring a little too long at the scars that criss-crossed Charon’s mouth.

He could come here to get drinks, or he could not come here at all.

The newcomer looked at the glass, then back at Charon, his wide smile slipping into something smaller, but no less obnoxious. “Nice of you to offer me a refreshment, boss.” His lilting voice danced over the words, carrying its own odd tune. “Water please, if you would be so kind.”

Charon swung back around to the sink kept in the corner of the bar, and vindictively poured him a glass of tap. Slinging it across the countertop with an excessive amount of force, hoping that it would tip over before it could be caught, preferably into the boy’s ridiculous sweater vest.

Unfortunately, that quick hand snatched up the glass with the same ease it had tripped across the ivories onstage. Holding up the drink towards Charon in a mock toast.

Charon watched another guest meander up to the bar with no small amount of relief. Going over to attend to them and hoping that his unwanted companion would be gone by the time he returned. He lost himself in the shuffle of order and refills, a blessed moment of busy peace where no one was trying to make conversation with him.

It should have taken too much to hope he would find the newcomer gone when he turned around; but somehow Charon still found the space to be disappointed.

His watcher let out a low whistle, attentively tracking the way Charon flipped the shaker with practiced ease. Quickly gathering up the rest of his tools, slotting them back into the cabinet alongside the liquor, primed and ready for the next order.

“You’re pretty good with your hands, or awful fast at least. I’m quite impressed.” The kid drawled; or as much as one could drawl when talking at the clip he seemed to go on. Words stumbling into one another in a stilted, choppy beat.

Charon gave a pointed glance to his mostly full glass of water. Having no reason to waste an iota of attention on him if the boy wasn’t asking for a drink.

His nameless tormentor followed the same trajectory, eyes dipping down to his glass, still full, and then back to Charon resolutely standing at the other end of the bar. Holding extended eye contact all the while, the kid poured the remaining contents of the glass into the potted ficus that stood next to his barstool.

The low mood lighting of the speakeasy reflected oddly in those dark eyes, luminescent like a cat’s, crinkling at the corners as he raised the empty glass once more. “Water please.”

Charon stared despondently at that jauntily extended hand, starting to feel out of his depth. He snatched the glass once more, filling it slowly from the chilled pitcher of ice water provided for guests. Careful of the condensation, he put down a coaster before gently setting the glass down in front of his persistent visitor.

“Thank you,” The kid said brightly. Ignoring the requested beverage completely in favor of extending his hand over the bar. “Hermes, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Charon looked dumbly at the hand in front of him. Eyes flitting back and forth from it’s inviting splay, to the still smiling face of its owner.

It eventually dipped lower, going back to resting on the countertop, with the smile still in place. “Not really a handshake kinda guy, huh? Can I least get your name?”

Charon let out a reluctant sigh, shifting to take weight off his protesting leg, and deciding to bow to the inevitable. He quickly went through the signs spelling out his name. Hoping that that the other would finally be clued into the fact that he was not very likely to get a response he could understand, even if Charon had desired to participate.

Hermes’ brows dipped up and down in a surprised bounce, smile taking on a rueful tinge. “Ah, sorry about that boss. Didn’t realize there was a bit of a language barrier.”

Charon gave a brief shrug, leaving his - for the moment - blessedly silent visitor to his water and his own devices. Moving to attend the endless stream of other patrons, heading to the one clamoring for some additional martinis at their table.

He lingered at that end of the bar for what was left of the night, Hermes still occupying the opposite side. Taking slow sips of his water, eyes firmly on Charon whenever he turned back to see if the other was still there.

Charon could feel that stare prickling along the back of his neck even when he was turned away. He itched for a cigarette, rather discomfited by the whole interaction. It wasn’t the first time someone with more curiosity than sense had spent the night gawking at remains of his old injuries. But that kind of event was never improved with repetition.

Eventually, the last of the guests trickled out, leaving only Hermes, along with two stragglers who were taking their sweet time to slip out the back, lingering near the door without actually exiting. Charon privately debated the benefits of providing them with some gentle encouragement, forcing them to skitter out of the speakeasy and leave him to close up the night. Releasing him of contractual obligation, leaving him free to shoo out his other unwanted remainder.

He leaned against the counter for one last minute of rest. Giving his strained knee some reprieve before he walked over to escort those bar flies from the premises.

He never got the opportunity; jolting to awareness at the chime of the pull bell fixed next to the liquor cabinet. Jingling insistently in the mellow silence of the empty club.

Charon sprang into action, knowing the bell was only rung in one specific circumstance. Advance warning from Dusa, alerting that the Prohibition Investigators were headed down the front entrance; ready to be a nuisance about any potentially illegal spirits they would find in the premises.

He made sure to deprive them of the chance.

Hades was many things, but when it came to hiding alcohol, the man was no fool. Charon only had to shift some gears hidden behind the liquor cabinet. A complicated pulley system that scooped out those shelves, groaning with bootleg liquor. Drawing them into the false back of the wall, sliding a new collection of items into the empty space. Endless bottles of contraband replaced with a colorful hodgepodge of tea boxes. An entirely different kind of bar.

He removed one of the gears for good measure, sliding the little piece of metal into his pants pocket. Rendering the whole mechanism useless unless the agents had come equipped with their own set of tools. He confirmed that the stragglers had fled the premises as soon as they had heard the bell, and calmly walked over to the other end of the bar.

Charon occupied himself with pouring some more chilled water into the still fairly full glass of a rather confused looking Hermes, whose eyes dipped swiftly back and forth from the shelves to Charon. The Prohis burst in before the boy had a chance to ask any questions. Kicking in the very much unlocked door with a banging slam that probably dented the wall again.

Charon watched them swagger into the room with a sigh, mentally adding plaster to the list of things he would need to request from Hades this month.

“Hello gentlemen,” The nearest federal agent crowed. Sweeping across the room with theatrical swagger. “I hope you don’t mind the late visit. We got a little tip, about the sort of establishment being run here.”

“Now you boys wouldn’t happen to know if there are any illicit substances being offered in this location?” He asked, his voice dripping with a sleazy sort of confidence.

Charon relished the chance to sign his refusal. Knowing his inability to verbally respond usually drove the bumbling investigators up the wall. Annoying them into leaving earlier than expected.

The man’s confident affectation dropped the instant he saw Charon signing, replaced by a puzzled scowl. “What are you, simple? I asked you a question.” The agent snapped, losing his patience in record time.

Hermes, mostly forgotten by the both of them, made his presence known with a sharp laugh, barely hidden into his cupped hand. “Haven’t you seen anyone sign before? I thought they were supposed to teach you federal types all sorts of things.”

The Prohis’ mouth twisted into a nasty looking sneer, ready to start trouble, but beaten to the punch by his partner. Who drew their attention to the other side of the room with a loud bang.

The other investigator had wandered onto the stage to continue his farce of a search, and now seemed to be focusing his efforts on that hulking monstrosity that sat there. Hermes’ piano, an odd sort of instrument that Hades’ hirelings had brought in, piece by piece though the back entrance for tonight's performance.

They had all whipped around, just in time to catch the other man give the piano onstage another sound kick. A thud that jostled the keys with a warbling echo. Hermes immediately jumped off his stool and rushed over to the stage, putting himself between the federal agent and the much abused musical instrument. “Hey, there’s no need for any of that! She’s delicate, this thing’s custom built, you don’t need to go whaling on her like that!”

Charon and the remaining agent hurried over, just in time to see the other Prohi take another step towards Hermes boxing him in against the piano. “Wanted to check for hidden compartments. Ain’t never seen anything that looks like that before.” The man said lowly, casting a critical eye at the strange aberration that had been placed on the stage for that evening. An awkward box that seemed a mish-mash of two instruments.

“Like I said, she’s custom.” Hermes spat, looking mostly oblivious to the potential danger. “It’s a combination of an upright piano and a baby grand. It gives better sound.” He continued, rambling with the same level of oblivious zeal he had directed towards Charon earlier. The other Prohi clambered onto the stage, circling Hermes like a pair of sharks.

The first agent let out a nasty little laugh, his attention shifting from the piano towards Hermes. He raked a critical eye over his rather short stature. Lingering on the details, the fastidious setting of his collar pins, the deliberately untied bowtie, the little chains of gold that dangled from his pierced ears.

“You gonna lecture me kid?” He asked, in a tone that made it clear he wasn’t looking for answers. The man slid closer towards Hermes, hand reaching out to give a disdainful flick to one of his earrings. The little chain swung with the impact, Hermes flinching back the slightest bit alongside it, now realizing the sort of situation he’d landed himself in. Antagonizing men with blanket permission to do whatever they felt like, the broad excuse of the Volstead Act safeguarding their missteps.

Charon, knowing a rapidly escalating situation when he saw one; swung himself onto the stage as well, with no small amount of effort. Placing himself directly behind Hermes. Daring them to cause enough trouble that would justify him escorting them from the premises.

The other agent scoffed, his face twisting into a sneer. “Didn’t expect to find myself a pair of-”

“Gentlemen,” Megaera’s smooth and steely voice cut the man off before he could continue.

The four of them turned to look at her in unison. That tall and intimidating shape that lingered in the doorway of the speakeasy, back lit by the light from the stairwell. “I trust that your investigation has concluded. It seems to me like you’ve found nothing; other than the chance to harass some of our employees.” Meg meandered forward into the light of the stage. Somehow managing to stare down at the agents despite their advantage of higher ground.

The Prohis took a quick and calculating look between her amazonian figure, and the broad shape of Charon, still lingering on their left. “Concluded for today, but we may see the need to come back in the future.”

“Do so with a warrant next time,” Meg suggested, in a tone that booked no argument. Coolly watching the two agents skitter away and up the stairwell, their bravado evaporating in her infamous presence.

Meg herself seemed mostly bored with the whole affair. As the second in command to Hades, the premier mafioso in the city, the woman intimidated people without ever trying. An effect so inevitable it seemed to have lost its luster completely in her eyes.

Once they were gone, her look turned towards Charon, still lingering onstage. “Can you even get down from there?”

Charon waved away her concern, more than capable of getting down and heading back to the bar without his cane. Not an enjoyable experience, but certainly a possible one.

“Suit yourself,” she said, moving on from him and towards Hermes. “Were you able to make the delivery?”

“I was just about to get to it, before we were interrupted by that lovely pair.” Hermes moved to the other end of the piano, the one undisturbed by the Prohis; and began rooting around in the back of the instrument. With a hollow pop, one of the sides unlatched, falling open to reveal the array of gleaming bottles, stored safely in a padded false compartment underneath the strings.

Charon watched the whole affair proceed with tired resignation. Of course. Trust Hades to find the most obnoxious courier possible and not have the good grace to let Charon know who they were beforehand.

Hermes, presumably as sick of the evening as Charon was himself, helped him unload the bottles and move them over to the bar in blessed silence. Task complete, Meg ushered the boy upstairs, presumably for payment, leaving Charon to flip the mechanism once more and stock the bar in peace.

He quickly put the new spirits back in their rightful places. Organized by proof and by type, the whole thing finished neatly before three in the morning. He shuffled around the room, cleaning up for the night, Meg catching him on the last round to pick up any stray debris.

She perched herself on the same stool Hermes had sat on earlier, next to the now very well hydrated ficus. “If those idiots come back here again feel free to kick them out. They’ve exhausted Hades’ patience, and mine.”

Charon gave her a curt nod, taking back some stray glassware to the bar. That was one instruction he could carry out with relish. The investigators having tried _his_ patience more than enough times by now.

Meg silently watched him closing the bar, lighting up a cigarette on his way out. Movingly slowly and stiffly without the aid of the cane, which he had neglected to bring with him tonight. She scoffed, watching him struggle up the stairs, but still waiting patiently for him at the top. “Just use the damn thing when you need it Charon. It’s not exactly doing you any favors to keep being stubborn about it.”

Charon helpfully pretended not to hear any of what she just said, politely holding the door open so she could exit first. They walked into the little cafe that shared the front entrance with the speakeasy, Dusa glaringly absent from its till. The poor girl did have a bad habit of fleeing the moment that Meg entered the premises.

Charon locked the door to the stairwell, club sealed away for the night. The both of them exiting out into the street. Meg turned the same corner he did, seemingly set on walking him home that night. He cast a quizzical look in her direction, questioning the unnecessary escort.

“I wouldn’t need to walk you home if you’d brought the damn cane old man.” She chided, as if such an action weren’t miles below her pay grade. “Besides, I thought I would update you on the way out.”

“Hermes is playing again this week. So don’t bother getting someone to move the piano.” Charon exhaled his cloud of smoke in quiet surprise. Hades rarely had repeat performers, live music having turned into something of a special affair.

“Don’t ask me,” Meg said, waving away the smog that rose in her direction. “It’s probably just nepotism. They’re related, that’s his nephew apparently. In any case, he’ll be making the deliveries and providing entertainment on certain nights. I’ll let you know the full schedule for both as soon as Hades works it out.”

Charon mulled that little tidbit over. Taking it into his home after Meg had completed her self appointed duty. He had spent most of the night aggressively ignoring Hermes whenever possible, finding now that it was impossible to recall if he and that ungodly piano had been any kind of good at all.

He supposed he would have ample time to make up his mind about it in the future, considering the repeat performances that loomed on the horizon. More than long enough to sort of out if Hades had finally fallen prey to the occasional hand out.

* * *

To Charon’s mild disappointment, Hermes was actually fairly decent, maybe even quite good.

Any insinuations of nepotism did not hold up for too long, upon seeing the pronounced lack of patience Hades seemed to have with his own nephew. Content to offload him as Megaera’s issue, who in turn off-loaded it onto Charon.

This of course meant that the task of dealing with Hermes fell squarely onto Dusa. Charon being about as inclined towards socialization as a fish was to breathing. The two seemed to get along like a house on fire, and the whole thing proceeded without a hitch. Charon handing over Hermes’ payments to Dusa, confident that she would pass them onto him in full.

In an ideal world, this would have meant that Charon and Hermes need never have interacted. Calmly going their separate ways save perhaps for the occasional greeting due to social obligation.

This was very much not the case.

Hermes seemed to relish talking to every possible audience on every possible occasion, even Charon. Not dissuaded in the least by his lack of response. He had taken to arriving before the speakeasy had opened, chatting up Dusa over the period of several weeks until it seemed he had wholly endeared himself to her good graces. Friendly enough for her to let him inside the club before Charon arrived to set up for the evening.

Charon’s fragile peace had evaporated completely, invaded by Hermes on every turn. He would find their strange little rum-runner practicing nearly every evening. A melodious backdrop to Charon’s usual routine. The sound of that piano filling every nook and cranny of the empty room; drifting towards the back, into the kitchenette while he prepared the bitters and the sours.

Stretches of time that became measured by that odd box which lived in near permanence on the stage of Elysium, save for the times it was ‘due for a tune up’ once a month. Taken to some secondary location where the hidden compartment would be crammed full of spirits. Both home brewed and vintage, from those distant times before prohibition. Ferried back and forth by Hermes and one or two of those bodies of anonymous muscle, helpfully provided by Hades.

Charon had been mildly amused to note that the baby grand was in fact, a completely useless portion of the instrument. It had been created solely to house and transport the bottles of liquor, easily slipped in and out of the city under the guise of a priceless instrument. The real sound was emitted from the body of the upright piano, the span of the baby grand merely slotted on top as a convenient ruse.

It was perhaps the stupidest lie that had ever been conceived, and it had become a resounding success. Something about the persona of Hermes sold the visuals of an eclectic artist, passionate and knowledgeable enough about his craft to dream up that bizarre Frankenstein instrument. A certain quality found in the way he swept into a room, chattering a mile a minute, clad in some painfully modern fashion, adorned by his usual style of rather feminine looking jewelry.

The sound of Hermes was dramatically less pleasing than that of the piano, but had become equally familiar.

On stage, he would routinely dazzle the crowds as a performer. Hands flying over the keys while he belted out into song. An even, resonant voice requested for encores by the more enthusiastic crowds late in the evening. Off stage, his voice lost the measured quality of a predetermined tune. Words bumping into one another in a rush of sound, whose upbeat tempo assaulted Charon’s every moment. Since Hermes had taken hanging around after closing; even on the occasions when no deliveries needed to be made.

Charon had gained himself an excitable shadow, dogging his steps well into the night. Sitting on the stool Hermes had come to claim as his; he would watch Charon sort and clean glassware with undue fascination. As the affected party, Charon took it with ill grace at first. Suspecting it had something to do with the rabid curiosity Hermes displayed for the few tattoos that were visible when he rolled up his sleeves to clean up for the night.

Just one of the many things he had come to know and absorb about Hermes without meaning to, over the course of several weeks. Slowly but surely, an off compendium of knowledge had come to appear in Charon’s brain. Instinctually cataloged despite its lack of worth.

Little details, such as the fact that Hermes, for all his lack of restraint in other areas, never once touched any manner of liquor. He would occasionally ask Charon for glasses of water, barely intending to drink them in the first place. Or request something closer to a mocktail. Juice and seltzer water with nothing else. A peculiarity that felt at odds with the rest of his effusive persona.

Minutia like that piled up, transforming Hermes from an annoyance into a person. Tolerance fading into acceptance, folding him into the repetitive tapestry that made up Charon’s evenings. Hermes’ interactions carving their own little niche as a reliable event.

His tolerance had increased, but he blatantly disagreed with Dusa about this leaving him open to any level of possible fondness.

“He’s very nice and friendly, I think you’d like him if you actually gave him a chance.” Dusa had stammered fitfully. In one of those increasingly scarce evenings where Hermes wasn’t present. Leaving him and Dusa on their lonesome for the most part, aside from the occasional appearance from Meg.

The insinuation that Hermes deserved additional space in Charon’s life - into which he had already inserted himself with all the zeal of an invasive species - had instantly brought a disdainful scowl over his countenance. The kind of expression that had used to send her scrambling back upstairs. Back when his very presence seemed to strike the fear of god into the poor woman without trying.

Such days were sadly over. Dusa merely chewed her lip, slightly reprimanded, but not cowed in the least.

Megaera, not reprimanded in any sense of the word, had scoffed loudly. “Stop trying to scare away Dusa just because you don’t like that it’s true.” Meg had rolled her eyes, casting a pointed look towards the way Charon insistently batted their elbows away from the countertop he had just cleaned. “He’s still the only person that’s been able to park himself here as often as he wants without being chased off. That’s downright friendly for you Charon.”

Charon had studiously played dumb at that last statement. Not wanting to explain the long internal battle that had led to his eventual resignation on the subject. Much of Hermes felt like a force of nature, some battles more easily conceded than lost. He had a sinking feeling that this explanation would not sound all that factual to other ears.

“I just think he could surprise you,” Dusa had added hesitantly, a parting shot before she had slipped back upstairs. Presumably having reached her tolerance limit around Meg. Who still seemed to make her unaccountably nervous, even when Charon’s own intimidation had long since faded.

Amazingly enough, surprise him Hermes did, despite all expectations.

Charon had grown used to the odd pantomime required in nearly every conversation. Precious few people around understood sign language. Any other manner of expression torn away by the shrapnel that had flayed open his throat and decimated the left side of his face.

A necessary evil, to try and make himself understood through gestures and expression. Something Charon managed by choosing to barely express himself at all. Letting others puzzle out what was required beyond the easy exchange of naming a drink and receiving it in turn.

The kind of bare minimum which did not seem to satisfy Hermes. Happy to sustain the conversation by his lonesome for the most part; intent only on wheedling out the occasional ‘yes’ and ‘no’ out of Charon in order to keep it going. The sort of upbeat enthusiasm that seemed to fill him, not just in soul, but also in body.

Hermes seemed to bounce more than he walked, a hopping step that buoyed him up and down with restless energy. Charon watched him, picking his way across the room - scattered with empty chairs after closing - with that dancer's gait; coming to a stop so sudden his chest slammed against the counter top of the bar, wood rattling with the impact.

Charon carefully rearranged the astray that Hermes had knocked out of place, not even bothering to ask him to slow down at this point. He’d been around the man enough times to understand it was a futile endeavor.

“Hey boss!” Hermes chirped, his hands slapping against the counter top in an impromptu drum roll. Occupied as always, with some form of showmanship, even with an audience of one. “How are we doing on his fine evening; that much better since I’ve arrived I imagine?”

Charon did not bother to curb the tired exhale that served as his response.

Hermes burst out laughing almost immediately, seemingly not dissuaded in the least by his lack of enthusiasm. “Aw no don’t be like that,” he leaned into the bar more fully, resting his chin on his hand, and resting his elbow on Charon’s clean counter top. Charon’s immaculate, freshly cleaned, counter top. He forced his focus back onto the conversation, resisting the urge to shoo him off the bar with great restraint.

“In any case, I promise I’ll be out of your hair soon. I just came here for my usual.” Hermes said primly, nearly buzzing with excitement, carefully re-arranging himself before clumsily signing _‘Drink, please_.’

Charon nearly smiled, amused despite himself. Deciding, a bit meanly, to test Hermes’ mettle. Quickly signing back ‘ _What do you want?_ ’, not bothering to slow his gestures.

The smile quickly slipped off of Hermes’ face, sliding into an embarrassed grimace. “So I have to confess,” he began awkwardly, drumming his fingers on the counter top, a nervous rattle of sound. “I didn’t think I would get this far, and I have no idea what you just said.”

Charon did laugh then, a rough chuff of sound scraping its way up his throat, one of the few things it could reliably produce. Scraping together the cold remains of his pity, he poured Hermes a single glass of water.

The kid stared down at his requested drink with a slight pout, sliding it closer with a sigh of defeat. “Well I’ll do better next time, big six. Dusa taught me that one and she said she knows a few more. But given my resounding success I think I’m better off asking the old fashioned way.”

Hermes’ fingers traced around the rim of the glass, playing with the condensation. “So, I know I’ve been hanging around a lot more than you probably expected, and I’m starting to think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot at first.”

His hands danced along the side of the drink, a repetitive chime in the silence of the room. Hermes’ perpetual motion tinged with nervousness for the first time. “I wanted to say I’m sorry if I ever bothered you. I know I can be a bit of a chatterbox, and you’re been a real good sport about it; so I’d like to make it up to you. Especially since Hades said this is turning into a permanent gig soon.”

Hermes sucked in a quick breath, forcing out his next words in a rush. “I can take you out to lunch, my treat! If you want of course; if not that’s fine! I can just leave you alone more often instead, if that’s what you’d prefer?”

Hermes put on what Charon assumed was his most beatific smile, doing a passable impression of someone who had never done anything untoward or illegal ever in their life. Charon knew better than to fall for it. “But I’d really appreciate it if you said yes.” He wheedled. “I just thought it would be nice if we could get to know each other a little, if we’re going to be keep working together.”

Charon let out a deep sigh, taking one last, critical look at Hermes.

Short, meddlesome, loud and perpetually nosy. But, sincere. Earnest enough to have taken time out of his day to ask Dusa for the few signs she did know. Trying to meet Charon in his unsociable middle.

It was that sincerity that spurred him to bow to the inevitable, giving him one curt nod.

Hermes bounced in place like a coiled spring, pent up energy releasing all at once, alongside the bright smile that split his face. “Great! Tomorrow, I can come by early and take you to a little place down the street! Thanks boss, see you then!”

Hermes rushed out with the same speed that he had arrived, having gotten what he wanted. Leaving Charon to stew in his own trepidation. The prospect of an entire luncheon, likely filled with more conservation than he’d had in months.

* * *

Charon finds himself swept inside one of the many Hole-in the wall eateries that litter New York. He’s sat, menu in hand and coat off before he’s finished processing their arrival. Caught in the tide that is Hermes’ constant prattle.

“The soup is great, and so’s the fried trout. But friendly warning to stay away from the Roast Beef _Au Jus_. Unless you fancy spending the rest of your evening indisposed. No idea what they put in the damn thing.” Hermes said in a loud stage whisper, seemingly unaffected by the waitress’ glare.

Charon points towards his selection of the soup, not wanting to test Hermes’ theory just yet. The waitress aggressively pours them a glass of tepid water each, taking deliberate care to splash some on Hermes. Before vanishing towards the kitchenette. They both watch her go, stuck in a brief, awkward silence.

“I think I’ve offended her,” Hermes says, with such affected surprise that Charon barely has time to bury his scoff into his glass of lukewarm water.

“Well, can’t charm them all I guess. Besides, I’m supposed to be focusing most of my efforts on you.” Hermes roots around in the dingy little messenger bag that he seems to carry with him everywhere. Slapping a crumpled looking notepad and a pencil down onto the table. Sliding it down Charon’s way, wedged uncomfortably close to the butter dish in their cramped table.

“I’m still fairly illiterate when it comes to signs, so I thought I would make this easier on us both.” He nudges the notepad closer, sliding the pencil into Charon’s lax grip. “So, how are you; how’s your day been?” Hermes asks, his leg bouncing restlessly under the table, vigorously enough to make their utensils start shaking with the force of its vibrations.

The sole focus of that boundless enthusiasm, with no available distractions, Charon relents, scribbling out _Fine_ in the notepad. Hermes squints at his upside down print, letting out a loud dramatic exhale when he makes out the word. “What a terrible answer; you really aren’t much for conversation aren’t you?”

Charon gives a slow shake of his head, seeing no reason to deny what is so obviously true.

Hermes laughs at him, but not meanly. Bottom lipped pinned between his teeth in an odd, amused expression. As if he found - for one reason or another - Charon’s complete lack of social skill strangely endearing. “I’ll put you out of your misery, and just start asking you some questions then. What’s with all the rings?”

It is becoming patently clear that a shrug is not the kind of response Hermes is willing to let him get away with.

Charon settles himself in the chair more comfortably, resting the notepad on the edge of the table to write out his answer. Painfully succinct, but hopefully acceptable.

He just likes them. Always has. Hermes watches him print out his response with more of that enthusiastic attention. Sight fixed firmly on the tip of the pencil as it crosses the page. Cradled between the gold bands stacked along Charon’s hands. Firing off another conversational volley as soon as he’s done.

Dragging out some of Charon’s own little details, offering some of his back in turn. It’s a strange exercise, though not unpleasant, remembering how to speak to another beyond the gestures of yes and no. Drawn out of his shell by Hermes’ little pokes and conversational prods. A path smoothed by his natural charisma, ready to cover for any of Charon’s missteps.

They waste an inordinate amount of time in the endeavor. Trading bits and pieces over their meal, several pages in the notepad brimming with Charon’s scrawl by the time they’re anywhere close to leaving. Lingering over the dessert Charon had been bullied into partaking in.

In the end, it is Hermes who reminds them of the hour, taking a quick and disappointed look at his watch. “I probably need to get you back to your cave old man.” He shakes his head in mock disappointment popping the last bit of pie into his mouth. Charon looks away, breaking the eye contact, down towards his own plate. Scraping the crumbs into a tidy heap in the center. Puzzling over how Hermes doesn’t choke even when he insists on putting the fork so far into his own mouth.

“Just let me take care of the bill and I’ll see you safely reinterred into your crypt once more.”

Charon’s lone eye casts towards the ceiling, not looking forward to yet another person joining the lineup of co-workers who insist on mocking his apparent age. He vindictively writes out _Thirty-six_ in an empty margin of the notepad, pushing it back towards Hermes. Who finally seems to choke on the utensil he’s so hell bent on shoving towards the back of his throat.

“Oh wow, you look terrible for your age!” Hermes says with a level of wondrous delight that feels even more insulting. Charon gives a disdainful glance to the youthful roundness of his face, not up to being patronized by someone so young.

Hermes seems to grasp his meaning without words, his mouth curling into a sly looking smile. “How old do you think I am?” He asks, letting Charon lean forward to evaluate him at will. He takes a cursory look at the unlined smoothness of his face, the thick, dark hair worked into an artful coif and writes down _Twenty-one_ in another unoccupied corner of the page.

Mischief gathers in the corners of Hermes’ mouth, smile splaying wider. “Twenty-nine actually.”

Charon looks at the man seated before him with dawning horror, realizing how much closer they are in age than previously thought. His face contorts into some manner of expression that makes Hermes burst out laughing again, dropping the required amount of cash on the table before he’s springing up and out. A baffling amount of energy for someone who is soon to be thirty. “Come on, almost-old man. Let’s get you back where you belong.”

* * *

It appears that giving Hermes an inch will result in him taking a mile.

Going out to lunch with the man once has imbued with him a reckless confidence to bother Charon every hour, on the hour. Like a victim unknowingly inviting the vampire past the threshold, Charon has cracked open that door the slightest bit and now finds himself completely overwhelmed.

He stops wasting time trying to puzzle out when he stopped minding, and focuses his efforts on trying to teach Hermes more ASL upon his request. Determined to at least a point where he can chew the man out for putting his elbows on the bar counter without running into the ever present language barrier. Or resorting to finding pen and paper.

Time ticks on around them, summer sliding into fall. The evenings marked and measured by the chime of Hermes’ piano as he sets up for the evening and cleans up for the night. A comfortable, if thoughtless acquaintanceship, defined by their inhabiting of the same shared workspace. Hermes’ characteristic affableness, nothing more. Delightfully impersonal for the most part.

When the veneer crumbles unexpectedly, Charon isn’t sure who exactly might be to blame, if anyone, for that series of events.

He’s long since stopped keeping track of Hermes; usually found sticking to Charon’s side after closing. Helping him with this and that when he suspects Charon’s being unreasonably stubborn about his injuries. It is an evening like any other, except his usual shadow has spirited away to some dark corner after helping kick the stragglers out of the club.

Charon thinks nothing of it, assuming he’s gone home. Gathering up the trash to take out into the alley via the back exit. The last of the tasks before he can head on home.

It’s not unusual to find someone out in the back exit. Stragglers usually linger, even after they’ve been kicked out. More of a nuisance than a danger. Amorous couples that take to necking behind the dumpster. Though what manner of romantic thrill could be gained when surrounded by garbage and the lingering smell of piss Charon will never know.

He usually takes a vindictive glee in hurling the trash into whatever dumpster they’ve decided to shack up against. Content to let them skitter off like rats into the mouth of the alley without giving chase. The only thing that has ever mattered about the dumpster is the fact that he needs to padlock it - along with the back exit - once all the guests leave for the night. Mindful of the glass bottles that could be found amongst the other debris, the few pieces of evidence that remain of their operation. Safely locked away until that secondary group, hired by Hades, carts it all away early in the morning, before the garbage men have yet to arrive.

When he sees the two dark shapes at the end of the alley, near the dumpster. Charon is unfazed, well used to scaring away those other kinds of stragglers. He purses his lips, readying a whistle, before those bodies shift the slightest bit. The dim light in the alley now enough to make out their identities.

Hermes, wearing that sly smile Charon has become accustomed to seeing, lingering with startling closeness to the body of that other. Not a woman, but a man. One of those faceless bodies in the crowd of Elysium, tipping attentively towards Hermes in turn. Leaving no shadow of a doubt as to what they had been engaged in, or soon would be.

Charon lingers on the precipice of complication for the barest of seconds before deciding, resolutely, that this is none of his business. Leaving the metal can parked by the exit, planning to return and toss the whole thing away later. A decent plan, completely ruined by the loud scrape of metal on pavement when he sets the whole thing down.

Everyone in the alley freezes. The other two turning with a startled jump to face Charon, nowhere near fast enough to make his escape without being seen. His gaze crosses Hermes’ for a second, tense and wide eyed as it meets Charon’s before he turns around. Resolutely heading back inside, leaving him to his business.

Charon only makes it a couple of steps inside - thinking about what else needs done before he leaves for the night -before he hears Hermes nearly tearing the door off its hinges when slipping back inside. The sharp patter of his footsteps trailing after Charon until he’s before him in the blink of an eye.

“Hey Boss!” Hermes skitters around him, too loud in the silence, an odd warble tainting his voice. “So about what you saw there. Which you didn’t! I would like to think that we both agree: no one saw anything back there, at all! And I have several crisp bribes in my billfold ready to entice you over to that viewpoint!”

Charon stutters to a stop, paused by the handful of crumpled bills Hermes shoves before him.

Hermes’ body, constantly in motion, jitters with clear nerves. A subtle tremor that rocks him in place, swinging the gold chains that dangle from his ears. Charon crosses the last threshold of that acquaintanceship, no longer thoughtless, gently pushing back the money towards Hermes with a slow shake of his head.

He makes the gestures slowly and broadly, enough time for Hermes to track them both. ‘ _Saw nothing.’_

The bills crumple in Hermes’ fist, clutched tightly to his chest. “Alright,” He says, voice unusually small.

Charon tries to press a reassuring hand to his shoulder, feels the body underneath thrumming with tension, sparking like a live wire. Hermes slips out from the touch, shying away with the instinctual terror of a fleeing animal. Up the steps and gone before Charon can offer anything else.

He is left alone, in the lingering silence of an empty speakeasy. Closing up by his lonesome for the first time in a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild notes on historical shit 
> 
> big six - big, strong dude
> 
> Note: dumpsters i dont think existed back then but, im tired ok i do what i want.


	2. Gin Rickey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief note while i figure out the best way to update the tags 
> 
> Period typical homophobia IS present (though kind of played up for effect bc the 20's were surprisingly liberal.) but period typical racism isn't something i'll be including. I have no desire to write a segregated society lmao, so just assume things are closer aligned to "modern" attitudes on that front. 
> 
> NOT THAT WE'RE DOING THAT GREAT WRT RACIAL DISCRIMINATION IN MODERN SOCIETY BUT YA'LL GET ME;;;;
> 
> \--------------------------
> 
> Chapter Name: Gin Rickey. A tart, dry drink. This bold and refreshing cocktail lets one enjoy the more subtle flavors of the gin, having little to no sugar.

The absence of something is usually not more noticeable than it’s presence. The profound _lack_ in a space once filled is limited to things that are vital, necessary. Hermes’ chatter was neither of these things. But perhaps, it was more pleasant than Charon had thought, for him to notice it’s departure as much as he does.

The Elysium is not a large operation. The main room has a maximum capacity of around two hundred bodies at a stretch, only half of them seated. The room is plush and luxurious - adorned in velvet drapes and lit by intricate wall sconces - but most of it is occupied by Charon’s bar and Hermes’ stage. There is a definite sense of quality over quantity; it’s breath and width dominated by those two features. Small enough that the absence of any color commentary creates a jarring silence.

Charon cleans and stacks the highball glasses into perilous towers in sepulchral stillness. Deprived of his recent company.

It is not a change that should feel upsetting. Which it isn’t, except for when it is. Not hurtful so much as it is disturbingly unusual. A half forgotten discomfort Charon prods at like a sore tooth for the pure novelty of the sensation.

He has spent the last two years manning that station, luxuriating in it’s lack of conversation. No interactions needed other than the providing of requested drinks. Occasionally chasing off rubbernecking guests who get a little too bold for his tastes. A reliable pattern of comfortable silence that encapsulated each and every evening, day in and day out. Several weeks of Hermes should not outweigh several months of routine. And yet -

When Hermes arrives it is perfectly punctual, barely a minute before he is due to perform. Spiriting out the door the moment he’s done, before Charon can even take notice. Leaving a niggling confusion that sticks with him all through closing, like a rock in his shoe. Too small to impede his movement, yet impossible to ignore.

The ‘whys’ crowd his brain, answered but unsatisfying. Resurfacing in perpetuity, as if a better explanation will present itself when he examines it one more time.

Logically, he knows the cause. Last time they had spoken Hermes had been found in what many would consider a compromising position.

Though some of New York’s boroughs had cultivated a more welcoming environment towards communities of _certain tastes_. Men and women like those could only visibly exist on the fringes of society.

On the occasions where they were allowed to exist at all, instead of swallowing their discomfort; conforming to the rest of the world at large for good or for ill.

Intellectually, he can understand the instinctual hesitance. But he has yet to accept Hermes’ skittishness in the face of Charon’s complicit silence.

It would almost be amusing - if it wasn’t unflatteringly odd - to think of Hermes suddenly gaining a distrust and deference towards him that was never there previous. That he would be doing so out of a concern that Charon might find his tastes questionable enough to merit disgust, or violence.

Charon can’t help but feel that it’s a bit rich, as a supposition. The tattoos that he gathered during his time in the navy about as visible as Hermes’ persuasions are in retrospect. Easily marking him as someone who fell outside of the norms of what was good and proper. Especially when seen alongside what remains of his face, the carved lines of shrapnel that serve as a clear stamp of his time in service, one that cannot be tucked away into the sleeves of his suit jacket.

He’s an old hand at receiving judgment, unasked for and unwelcome, of every possible variety. It chafes to think that he has inflicted such an annoyance on another, even if unintentionally. That Hermes would think him that shallow, even though Charon knows he might have every reason to. The sort of past experiences that linger, coloring the present despite all effort to be logical. Charon has experience with those too, alongside judgment. A powerful cocktail of negative associations that leaves him with the misanthropic desire to interact with people as little as humanly possible; after having seen the effects of them at their worst.

These are perfectly understandable thoughts and feelings. Perhaps not factual, but comprehensible in their conclusions. At least, he would like to think so, even if he is the only one who happens to hold that opinion.

“Moping isn’t a good look for you Charon.” Meg points out in her usual dry and acerbic fashion. About as likely to mince words as pigs are to take flight. “It’s not a good look for any man, but I’d wager that you’re an especially bad fit for it.”

Meg remains parked on her stool, lighting up a stolen cigarette. Completely unmoved by Charon’s best scowl, which usually sends the speakeasy patrons running back to their tables. “Either apologize for what you did or get over it.”

Charon signs back a clipped ‘ _Didn’t do anything.’_

In reality, the conventions of signing leave the actual statement closer to ‘ _Did nothing’,_ but Megaera easily grasps his intent. Long used to the economy of language that comes with ASL.

“Then it’s time to get over it.” She exhales a column of smoke towards the ceiling with affected casualness, a sharp breath leaving an equally sharp mouth. “Dusa didn’t tell me much about what’s going on between you two, but it’s not like anyone cares as long as it doesn’t affect the business. I suggest you don’t either.”

Charon ignores her statement and pettily shoves the ashtray in her direction. If Charon can’t stop his co-workers from gossiping about the continuous train wreck that is his latest social interaction, he can at least stop Meg from getting ashes all over the countertop.

_‘Don’t you have something to do?’_ He pointedly asks, watching Meg stub her cigarette on the ashtray, but linger at the bar without departing.

“Of course I do, but I wanted to see your sorry display for myself. I notice you haven’t denied the moping.” Charon levels his coldest stare towards her. There is no need to waste time denying something so patently untrue.

Moping implies a level of emotion that Charon does not have for the situation. No matter what the two young ladies he works with may say about the subject. Meg receives his wordless protest with her characteristic impassiveness, looking as unimpressed with Charon’s deflection as she is with the world at large. “Whatever you say. I’m more than happy to let you hide away down here marinating in your own stubbornness. It’s not me you need to watch out for; it’s Dusa.”

Charon pretends like the very prospect of Dusa’s well intentioned meddling doesn’t make dread line his stomach. “That girl’s too nice for her own good.” Meg shakes her head at both their antics, the swell of her stern mouth shifting just the slightest bit when she talks about Dusa’s pathological need to fix the inconveniences of everyone around her. The closest Charon has seen her get to a smile.

He resigns himself to the current blows to his public image, but tucks away that slip in her mask for later. His own piece of emotional blackmail to blow out of proportion, should Meg come knocking to bother him about this subject ever again.

He doubts that she will, and is proven correct. Meg comes to poke fun at him just the once. The kind of teasing familiarity that comes from the many years they have known each other, one of Nyx’s original adoptees. As much a part of the family as his flesh and blood brothers.

Dusa is not so easily dissuaded.

Charon is not a praying man, but he contemplates appealing to a higher power when faced with the unstoppable force that is her fretting.

The two of them have not known each other as long as Charon has known Meg, which turns out to be a significant pitfall. Meg is happy to leave him to his own devices after determining that Charon doesn’t care to delve too deeply into his own feelings on the topic. Content to return to his old routine once the sting of offense has faded in a week or two. Instead, Dusa chooses to pounce when he has established the shaky beginnings of familiarity with his prior modus operandi, just when Charon is beginning to think he’s in the clear.

“Hermes will come around eventually.” She assures him one evening, lingering after closing, in the same stool their unfortunate subject matter used to haunt. Charon is starting to wonder if she and Meg are choosing the seat on purpose.

Charon takes a deep inhale, trying for patience, thinking of how to say he doesn't actually care that much, within the limited means of communication available to them. Dusa is kind, and helpful, but she spends most of her time running the cafe upstairs. Too busy to learn more than the few signs needed to hash out some specific details in their businesses’ unlikely partnership. It was easier to wait for Meg to come around to translate. Or even Hermes, prior to his sudden distance, who had come to eclipse Dusa’s vocabulary in leaps and bounds. Eager to have a different conversational venue to assault Charon with.

Having Hermes around had been pleasant in it’s own way, his newfound absence, though odd, was not the end of the world. He was not, under any definition of the word, moping.

Dusa ignored his attempts to impress this upon her as easily as Meg had, though most likely on accident.

“I think he’s just had some bad experiences before. Managed to ask him about it a few days ago; he said it’s nothing you did. Just taking some time while he collects himself.” It’s hard to avoid her stare. Dusa’s eyes are big and brown, similar in color to Hermes’ though wholly different in composition. Open and earnest, where Hermes’ had been sly and narrowed; alley cat eyes.

“What did happen with you two?” She asks hesitantly. “Hermes didn’t elaborate on what went on. Do you really think he’s alright?”

Charon feels uncomfortably caught between something that is very much not his business, and something that _could_ be his business but he has no desire to keep discussing. He gives a quick shrug and commits to busying himself until Dusa has given up on her gentle interrogation and headed back upstairs for the night. Putting the whole thing cleanly out of sight and out of mind until someone chooses to bother him about it again.

That makes it at least a little ironic when the next time he’s forced to think about the whole thing, it’s no one's fault but his own.

Charon has an unfortunate habit of forgetting his cane. Forgetting in air quotes, as the thing leans on the wall next to his entrance of his apartment. Sitting plain sight every night he leaves for work, deliberately left behind.

It's annoying that he needs to use the thing. One more reminder that his body came out of the war a disfigured wreck. The sort of little details that add up until sometimes the simplest of tasks become difficult.

Charon leans against the wall at the bottom of the stairs on a particularly bad day. Giving his knee a rest before he attempts the trek upstairs. He’s not thinking about Hermes, or he wasn’t, until voices float down the stairwell from the cafe, bringing the topic back to the fore.

“Are you sure he didn’t do anything? Because if he did I’m sure Meg won’t mind giving him a talking to.” Dusa’s hesitant little voice carries the threat poorly, but she rarely needs to work on her delivery. The mere mention of Meg is enough to get most people to stop in their tracks. It’s certainly enough to get Charon to grit his teeth at the idea of having to stomach another visit from her on the subject. He gingerly puts weight on his troublesome leg - testing to see if he can make the trek upstairs and stop unintentionally snooping - but no dice.

It spasms painfully when he tries to stand, leaving him trapped at the bottom of the stairwell until he can wait out the pins and needles.

“Nah,” Hermes’ voice carries to their unintentional audience just as clearly, oddly subdued but unmistakable. “It’s not him. Don’t worry about it Dusa, promise. I’m just working through some stuff and I don’t have as much energy for talking is all.”

There is a slightly incredulous silence after that statement; from Charon, stuck at the bottom of the stairs, and from Dusa, up above.

Hermes’ rather loquacious habits have barely changed at all. He still chats up the patrons in between songs. Still spends a good half hour gossiping with Dusa before he comes downstairs to perform. All other patterns of behavior unaltered except for the part where he’s been avoiding Charon like the plague.

“Right…” Dusa’s voice starts up again, marred by a slightly incredulous tinge. “You don’t need to tell me what’s going on, it’s not like it’s my business! But I do hope you feel better soon. Also, I promise Charon looks grouchier than he is.”

He hears the giggle that accompanies her statement and can picture her smile perfectly, having seen it often enough. The way Dusa hides her mouth behind her hand, ducking her head. Rows of thick braids swinging forward to obscure her face.

“He tries to act all tough, as if we’re annoying him when we come down there, but I think he likes the company. If you ever feel up to talking with him again, I’m sure he’d enjoy it.” Dusa is blatantly angling now, obviously enough that even Charon recognizes it. He tries to scrape together some annoyance for her insistent meddling, but comes up short. Meg isn’t wholly incorrect about Dusa being too sweet for her own good.

“Maybe,” Hermes offers, breezy and non committal. “Hey, you mind going with me to the corner store? There’s something I forgot to pick up before I came here.”

Dusa lets him change the subject without much complaint. Charon hears them puttering around upstairs for a minute or two more, before he’s left standing on the bottom of the stairs in silence. Leg still stubbornly locked up, trying to wait it out without having his thoughts cast back towards the puzzle that is Hermes.

He’s not sure he’s entirely successful.

* * *

Interacting with the public always has its ups and downs. Some nights the drunks are easier to cow than others, everything proceeding smoothly and without issue. Charon pours his drinks. Hermes plays his piano. No slap fights break out between the patrons.

Other times, some of the guests get a little too deep into the moonshine for their own good. Rich folks with nothing better to do than start throwing around accusations, which escalate to include fists. This inevitably ends up in them being thrown to the curb. Hauled out the back exit over Charon’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Powered by the kind of annoyance so potent it makes him forget about the ache in his knee and gives him the strength to haul grown men around like scruffed kittens.

Hades will decide if they get to come back; if their apology will be sufficient for their trespasses. Otherwise, Charon never forgets a face. Ready to gleefully toss them on their ass, into a back alley that smells of piss; should they try to slip into the club without Meg saying they’re allowed back into the premises.

Tonight is one of those nights. An ex-patron starting a scene that requires him to be kindly escorted out the back entrance by Charon. Cussing and yowling all the way as he frog marches him out of the speakeasy. Arm twisted roughly behind his back in a painful hold to ensure the man doesn’t try and pull a fast one.

He’s disposed of easily enough, but the display sets a tone for the rest of the miserable evening. Guests find themselves high spirits and brassy with their requests, riding on the coattails of the drama in the way that crowds often do. Lemmings steering themselves off a particularly surly cliff, just because they saw one of them brave the jump earlier.

By the time the speakeasy has closed, he’s had to throw out two more shit-stirrers. His leg aches, and Dusa has had to close the cafe to stop them from trying to force their way back inside and risk another altercation. Especially when he’s already feeling the strain of having to haul three full grown men around tonight.

The poor girl has been reduced to hiding out in the speakeasy for the rest of the night. Unsettled by the way those two men had kept pounding on the door and yelling obscenities. Hissing slurred threats from beyond the glass, filled with more spirits than sense. She waits with him at the bar while the last of the stragglers clear out, only a few minutes from closing.

“I think, today merits a drink.” She says solemnly. Perched on a stool, legs swinging since her toes don’t quite reach the ground. “It’s been pretty horrid, I feel like we deserve it.”

Charon can only nod. Alcohol hasn’t exactly helped anyone make great choices tonight. But it will hopefully dull the discomfort in his knee long enough for him to shuffle on home.

Dusa smiles giddily at his agreement. A comforting sight after the way she had rushed down the stairs near tears, fleeing from the two idiots accosting her storefront.

“Great; I’ll go tell Hermes!” She slips off of her stool before Charon can stop her. Springing across the room and into the stage, where Hermes still sits. Playing a soft tune while the patrons who remain finish up their drinks.

Charon watches with mounting dread the way she slides next to Hermes on the piano bench. Whispering something in his ear. The both of them look at him and then look back at each other, launching into an animated discussion that goes on for nearly a full minute before Dusa kisses Hermes on the cheek and starts making her way back to the bar. “He said yes; it’ll be our own little party!”

Charon bites back his grimace, watching the way Hermes’ fingers dance across the keys onstage. Practiced and pitch perfect, but undeniably more tense than before. He doesn’t feel quite as enthusiastic as Dusa.

By the time the guests have left and the club has closed. Dusa is more or less dragging Hermes over to the bar. They walk over at a leisurely pace, still whispering furiously between each other. An uncommonly slow track for Hermes, who used to bound over to the bar like he was trying to break the world record in the hundred meter dash.

Dusa pokes and prods him into a stool, sliding on next to him. The only pleased person in the general vicinity. “Why don’t you make us something?”

Charon tilts his head to the side, gesturing in a wide arc. The sign for ‘ _what’_ isn’t something Dusa has used before, but hopefully the general mannerisms convey the idea well enough. Or enough that he doesn’t have to resort to turning towards Hermes - after weeks of giving him his desired space - just so he can translate.

“Oh just anything at all. Why don’t you surprise us?” Dusa bounces in her seat excitedly, strangely jazzed at the prospect of seeing Charon mix some liquids together. Concoctions of sours and syrups that mask the sharpness found on some of the lower end spirits in Elysiums’ shelves.

He chances a look at Hermes, who seems to be studiously looking at the countertop to avoid everyone else. Charon has no idea what he might like in terms of an actual drink, but settles on something he hopes they both might enjoy. A Mary Pickford, close enough to Hermes’ usual, fruity tastes of a Saint Clement, and aligned with Dusa’s tendency towards the sweet.

He presents them both with a remarkably pink drink, adorned with the requisite Cherry; and sloppily pours himself two fingers of whiskey. Cocktails are all very well and good, but on this particular evening he finds himself more partial to immediate results.

“Thank you Charon,” Dusa chirps, before tipping the drink back with a startling speed. The entirety of it gone in two quick swallows. “And thank you again for all your help with those guys earlier! Speaking of which, I should make sure the cafe is still alright, the both of you keep going on without me! I’ll be back in a jiff!”

The cherry is still rolling around in the empty glass by the time he hears the muted slam of the door at the top of the stairs, Dusa having left with surprising speed.

Hermes lets out a low whistle, also looking at the stairwell where Dusa had vanished moments earlier. “Do you think she’s locked us in?”

He shakes his head. Dusa clearly isn’t above forcing them into the same room, but she also isn’t cruel enough to lock them in together. Even if she had, Charon has the key.

 _‘You can leave if you want to.’_ He signs, turning around to give Hermes the privacy to slip away if he so chooses. Taking off his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves at the slowest possible pace. He folds it up and lays it on a free corner of the liquor cabinet, stalling until he has no other reason to face that direction.

Hermes is still there when he turns around. Nervously fiddling with the thin stem of his glass, but present. He takes a deep breath, as if to steel himself for some dreaded task. Knocking back his drink as quickly as Dusa.

“Hey boss,” The muted murmur is nowhere near his old level of enthusiasm, but it’s something. Charon tips his head towards Hermes. Meandering back over to take his own drink in hand.

“Have you-” Hermes starts and then stops with equal quickness. The tempo of his words stilted and choppy. “Have you told anyone about what you saw; last time?”

Charon shakes his head, and kills his own drink in one fell swoop. Somehow this doesn’t feel like the kind of conversation either of them wants to have while fully sober.

Hermes watches the trajectory of his glass with hungry relief, some of the tenseness leaving him at last. “Thanks.”

“I know you said you wouldn’t. But I haven’t had the greatest of luck with that in the past.” He gives a dry, bitter little laugh, his hands dancing across the counter top with a rattle of sound. The kind of constant fidgeting Charon had come to find glaring in it’s absence these last few weeks.

Hermes moves like a wind-up toy with an excess of torque. Bouncing from one movement to another in a complicated choreography of tapping fingers and restless legs. Charon watches, a little amused despite himself, having forgotten just how much Hermes can shake and shudder in place when working himself up to a good rant.

“Not that I think, you _personally_ are likely to go back on your word. Just that sometimes you’ll have someone say one thing and do something completely different! Which doesn’t apply to you specifically, at all, quite the opposite really! You’re refreshingly straightforward, a little too straightforward sometimes.”

“Which, I admit, is why I was a little hesitant to come around again, even though that sounds kind of stupid in retrospect?” Hermes all but vibrates in place barely looking at Charon as he gets tangled in his own words.

Charon gives two sharp raps on the countertop, cutting him off at the pass before he can dig himself into a deeper hole.

‘ _It’s alright.’_

Hermes bites his lip, clearly mulling something over; tracking the way Charon leans on the bar, the shift of the ink of his skin. Closer to the way he had watched Charon when they first met. Dark eyes that cataloged his every moment with unerring focus.

He had learned in time that it came not from sick, gawking fascination, but genuine curiosity. Hermes’ eyes follow his tattoos every evening. Dipping along the lines of the sparrows that bracket each side of his forearm, their tails brushing against the rolled up cuff of his shirt.

Hermes continues speaking without taking his eyes off of them. “I just didn’t want things to be different, or uncomfortable. Even if you weren’t going to rat me out-” His eyes sweep up from the sparrows to meet Charon’s. A slow and steady track that pins him in place with a weighty stare. “It usually tends to change the context of some interactions for most people, boss.”

The whiskey is starting to do its job. Creeping slowly up Charon’s brain and leaving it foggy. He gives a brief shrug, hoping it can communicate how silly he finds that prejudice without needing to elaborate. Hermes’ eyes follow the shift of his shoulders, iris swallowed by the pupil. He supposes the cocktail is beginning to affect him as well, considering neither one of them is a habitual drinker.

His hands fumble along the sign for ‘ _Alright’_ though it’s much too soon for his drink to be having that kind of effect. Gesturing towards Hermes, to the space between him and Charon. Shrugging once more to indicate his disinterest in that sort of anxiety.

Things are alright, they are alright. Hermes himself is alright, though parts of him remain incomprehensible. Loud and fast and alien to Charon’s way of thinking. The kind of company he enjoys is none of Charon’s business.

Hermes’ face scrunches up as he bends into a laugh. The pleasant and thoughtless thing that existed between them unfurling back into existence. “What a rousing endorsement. You must be a regular casanova, sweeping women off their feet with those sweet nothings.”

Such an obnoxiously over the top statement can only mean that Hermes is back to normal. Having finally taken the time to confirm that Charon does not plan to hold anything about that night against him.

He rolls his eye and collects the three glasses on the counter top, letting Hermes’ endless chatter wash over him as he finishes cleaning up for the night.

* * *

Charon returns to the old ‘new normal’, the way Hermes will often stick around to keep him company after closing. More often than not dragging Dusa down with him so the two of them can gossip about his or that, leaving Charon free to go about his work. Comfortable hearing the buzz of their conversation in the background without contributing.

A familiar splash of white noise that reminds him to unwind; let go of the tension that comes from dealing with customers. Focus on the way Hermes has become increasingly adept at bringing Dusa out of her shell in a way that Charon himself could never achieve.

The way they hunch over their respective stools, calling him in when they need a tie breaker for whatever little argument they have gotten into. Hermes folds him into the conversation with little to no friction. The same way he gets Dusa to stop hiding behind the till of the cafe more often than not. His easy charisma carrying the discussion forward for all three of them without strain.

It’s more useful than Charon thought it would be; having someone there to steer the conversational waters on his behalf. A talent that Hermes has taken upon himself to bringing towards guests as well. Happy to translate Charon’s more esoteric responses; the kinds of things he usually gave up for a loss instead of lowering himself to having to painfully act it out to try and get them to understand.

It would be a lie, to say that Charon doesn’t get a particular sort of joy in seeing how Hermes sorts out those interactions. With his secondary and equally impressive talent of wording things just so. Dry, subtly sarcastic turns of phrase that leave people feeling pacified; even when Charon knows for a fact they are being mocked from the way Hermes complains about them the moment they walk away.

It’s a beautiful system that works wonders, except for the people who are too foolish to realize they’re being talked to in the first place.

Charon’s used to dealing with those himself.

It’s rare that he actually has to kick someone out due to the lateness of the hour. Most guests clear out on their own eventually, a process that can be sped up if Charon takes care to scowl at them just so. Boring holes into the back of their heads from his post at the bar. Creating an atmosphere hostile enough to drive away most kinds of drunks. The ones with a sense of self preservation at least.

Sadly there remains, the few, the proud; the kinds of idiots with no good sense left in them at all. That need to be firmly, but non-violently, escorted out of the premises. Too floppy to start a fight, but too out of it to know it’s time to leave.

A puddle of limbs that can barely keep themselves in order, not to speak of their belongings. Today’s idiot is especially poor at it. Having managed to dump his drink down Charon’s shirt on the way out. A wet and sticky mess of rum and Grenadine that soaks into the fabric of his shirt while he hauls that unfortunate soul out the back, leaving him propped up against the wall of the alley.

Charon bites back a tide of rising annoyance. Not only stripping off his suit jacket - something he does as soon as the bar is closed, in an effort to keep it clean while he tidies up all the stale puddles of spilled drink - but his vest and button up as well.

He tosses the soiled articles of clothing onto the end of the bar. Resigning himself to soaking them the moment he gets home and seeing what can be salvaged.

He barely notices Hermes has come up right behind him, hunched over the sink to splash water over his undershirt. Wringing out the faint streaks of pink that had managed to penetrate all the way down to that layer.

“Hey boss-” Hermes’ greeting gets cut off part way through. A sudden choke of sound that might have been his next word dying before it can begin in a strangled wheeze.

Hermes stares. Blatant open mouthed staring at the span of his other tattoos, once hidden by Charon’s shirt. The patchwork of ink that covers him from elbow to shoulder, carefully tucked away from view by his outfit.

Charon can’t help but let out an amused chuff of sound at the way Hermes seems to have frozen in shock. Tattoos were still a rare sight outside of the Navy, enough of a novelty to merit becoming a roadside attraction. He didn’t take Hermes for someone who would have a crisis of moral faith upon seeing just how many designs Charon’s laden himself with.

But Charon supposes it’s possible, given that he’s not a very observant person in the first place. Having been assured confidently by Megaera and Dusa that Hermes’ tastes should have been well and truly obvious even before being caught _in flagrante._

Hermes is still staring. He blinks several times in quick succession, the picture of disbelief. This close, Charon can’t help but notice the little details. The long, dark lashes that contrast sharply with the rest of Hermes’ face; curved and delicate against the sharp cut of his jaw.

They flutter again, a little up and down of movement, as if the next time Hermes opens his eyes he’ll see something different. It makes Charon laugh, reaching over to give a brief tap to the underside of Hermes’ chin. Which snaps shut with a sharp click.

‘ _You’re going to catch flies like that.’_ He signs, biting back another laugh at the way Hermes goes steadily crimson. Jolted back into awareness, and back into motion. His body rushing into movement as quickly as the color had rushed to his face.

Hermes skips away, putting some distance between them. Hands cutting an animated path through the air as he begins talking a mile a minute. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to ogle you like that! Not that I was ogling that is. Just curious! I’ve never really seen so many of them before. Had no idea you could really get that many at all, thought it was just the two of them on your arm instead of all that. They mean anything?”

Hermes gestures to the shapes that wallpaper Charon’s skin. To the ones do, and the ones that don’t.

There’s the sparrows, the tortoise and the anchor. All things with meaning to the men who spend their time in the open ocean. Tokens for safe travel, markers of places you’ve gone and what you’ve achieved. There’s the parts without meaning, but still with importance. The row of coins that trail down his right arm, ringing a compass.

The mass of curving, shifting lines that dominate his left with no interruption. The intricate dot work of a skilled artist he once knew. Smoke and waves that trail down his skin in curling patterns. In memoriam of his time at sea. The way water slapped against the sides of the boat, smelling of salt. The rocking motion of rough weather that he misses even now, years after he’s left it.

He contents himself with a nod, yes is still a true answer. Even if it's insufficient.

He expects Hermes to ask. To bow to that insatiable curiosity that seems to drive him even now. The way his eyes flit from one image to another. Bottom lip tucked under his front teeth, digging in harshly enough that it leaves white indents at their points of contact. Ravenously tracking the shadows that can be seen under the semi transparent dampness of Charon’s undershirt.

His other two pieces. One high, centered on his chest, and one low, just above his hips. Barely peeking out from the waistline of his slacks.

“Well,” The sound comes out high and strangled, as Hermes tears himself away from his blatant staring. “Came to say good night for now. Busy evening ahead of me. Talk to you tomorrow!”

Hermes sweeps away as suddenly as he arrived. Caught up in a kind of embarrassment Charon won't even bother to puzzle out, chalking it up to another one of his peculiarities. Hermes continues to steadily acquire them as time goes by, a bright and disruptive presence across the majority of his evenings. Not in any way unpleasant, but full of contradictions.

Their little pianist bounces into the metaphorical spotlight, buoyed by a sea of oddities that bring his mood up and down in an immeasurable tide. Capable of sweeping guests of their feet, dazzled by his quick wit and easy conversation. Often in the same evening he’ll end up rambling to Charon in stuttering tangents, when his silver tongued performance dies down at the end of the day. Those times where it’s just them and Dusa.

Hermes is capable of being witty yet awkward, charming yet abrupt. But no matter what is done, he tends to do it with utmost enthusiasm.

Charon has resigned himself to that enthusiasm.

Hermes’ excitable presence begins to creep slowly into other areas of his life, an unstoppable object the moment he gets something into his head. His latest pet project: bringing Charon up to speed with the times, starting with the music of the age. Jazz.

The reason he finds himself lingering in the speakeasy long after closing. Reluctantly parked on a stool as he watches Hermes fiddle with the record player halfway through an excitable monologue.

“And that’s why they started calling Duke Ellington beyond category! The man’s a great composer, you can already see his stuff changing the way other big bands play!”

Charon tunes him out just a little, without thinking. Listening without listening, more amused by the way Hermes says things than the content of the words themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow these fucking idiots, i cant wait to have hermes & Dusa keep teaching this decrepit geezer about the harlem renaissance and force him to do a little waltz.
> 
> Historical notes (I'm so sorry there's so many) - 
> 
> Mary Pickford - A Prohibition Era cocktail made with white rum, fresh pineapple juice, grenadine, and Maraschino liqueur.
> 
> Saint Clement's - A non-alcoholic cocktail. Though the ingredients may vary, it usually consists of orange juice mixed with bitter lemon, in equal proportions. 
> 
> Hairstyles at the time - I think even at the time of the Harlem renaissance most black hairstyles were still slicked back pixie cuts and bobs. So far what research i could do leads me to believe Braids that could be a stand in for Dusa's snakes weren't really a thing back then, but uh, It's my historical inaccuracies and i get to go hog wild with it. I'll double check on this later and edit as needed but if anyone sees any issues with it LMK. :0 
> 
> Regarding ASL - I've slowly become fascinated with ASL syntax and i won't force u all down this rabbit hole I've gone down on so forgive the other inaccuracies re: Charon's statements, since they probably wouldn't be an exact translation? Sign seems to have a real economy of language most of the time but, we are also hand waving that away for the time being so i dont sound EXTRA confusing.


End file.
